Mathematics, one way we snuggle up to shadow,

outstripped again by the never-my-always lensing

of what's underneath. Unable to see flaws

in the cosmic microwave radiation background

of childhood's forgetting, we reflect our selfhood

head-on, transdimensional. The surface tension

in Neo's mercurial mirror, a viscosity we feel

like the pixelated rhythm of love's misinformation

animated into holographic reversal, my practice

rewilding this music none of us can hear. I see

my ego as a poem, a stranger conceived in wounds

inflicted on my mind's gelatinous limitation,

this mollusk in grave exoskeleton. Like trauma

leads to art we use to drive intention, gravity

irradiates my filaments, surfs my cerebral surge.

A surface story fragments collapsed thought

into a catechism of scholastic bones, curvatures

not made literary in gravitational wave theory.

If you ask me while I'm dreaming, these worlds

write new opening acts for the universe. Time's exit

formless, my body as seen from the edge

of the Great Jellyfish Mind. Its tentacles heave in 

an unconditional headlong rush of forgiveness,

the prize-box purr, merciful killer of every organ.